


Running in the Dark

by WinterWidow94



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:03:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterWidow94/pseuds/WinterWidow94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pietro’s entire body felt unsettled – disturbed, somehow. Something was wrong – or something should be wrong. Or he was wrong. He shook his head. “This is not right.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running in the Dark

Blue – flashes.  
Green.  
Your patriotism will be rewarded.  
Pain. His head was on fire. His skull split open.  
You are serving your country.  
You are very brave.  
Red. More blue.  
Slamming into something. Slamming. Again, slamming. Again.  
Pietro?  
Fingers slid through his, and someone squeezed his hand.  
Red faded to blue and green.  
Pietro Maximoff, can you hear me?  
‘Pietro Maximoff, can you hear me?’   
“Pietro Maximoff, can you hear me?”  
He couldn’t remember opening his eyes, but there was someone in front of him. No – looking down at him. He leaned on a cane for support.  
“Where-” He stopped, his voice strangely thick. “Do I know you?” He looked around the room – white, with a glass wall. Florescent lighting gave an unnatural glow to everything it touched. Something was beeping. “Where am I?”   
He tried to sit up, but the man put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into something soft. A pillow. He was in a strange bed, in a strange room, with a strange man. “You’re still in recovery. It’s necessary that you remain as motionless as possible for at least twenty-four hours.”  
“Recovery?” The beeping in the background sped up. “Why? What happened?” His words were tangled, like his brain. He felt incomplete, somehow. Partial.  
“You can’t remember?”  
Pietro’s eyes narrowed. “Remember what?”  
“You were in a firefight in Sokovia, along with some other agents.”  
“Agents?”  
“SHIELD agents. You work for SHIELD.”  
“SHIELD,” Pietro repeated. SHIELD. The word conjured up the image of a something that looked like a flying aircraft carrier. “The flying ship?”  
“Hellicarriers,” the man replied. “But yes, technically they’re flying ships. My name is Gonzalez. You can call me Director.”  
Pietro’s entire body felt unsettled – disturbed, somehow. Something was wrong – or something should be wrong. Or he was wrong. He shook his head. “This is not right.” He looked left, right, all around for… what? He didn’t know for what.   
“No,” said Gonzalez, with something like a grimace. “It’s not. It took a special machine of ours and one of our in-house…enhanced people to get you back in working order. Your metabolism helped, of course.”  
“Resurrected.” The word was quiet, but his mind was loud. Screaming at him, in a language he couldn’t understand.  
“Something like that. You’ll stay here at SHIELD headquarters until we decide you’re fit to be back on the field.”  
“The field?” Pietro sat up. He felt as if there was a gaping hole in his head, in his heart – something he couldn’t fathom or see any reason for. “Why can I not remember anything?”  
“It should come back to you.” Gonzalez sighed. His unenthusiastic demeanor belied the attempted reassurance of his words. “Your head was hit by one of the bullets.”  
“I should be dead.” Pietro reached up and touched his head automatically, but there was nothing; no bandage, no stitches that he could feel.   
“Yes, you should be,” Gonzalez agreed. He removed his glasses and held them up to the light, checking for imaginary smears or dust.   
Even in his apparently healing state, Pietro was suspicious and not easily fooled. He could tell that this man did not like him, and did not even want to be in the same room. Since he was here, it stood to reason that he felt it was his duty – or perhaps his job.  
But someone was missing. Someone else should be here.  
Pietro looked at Gonzalez with sharp, questioning eyes. “Was there anyone else?”  
The Director put his glasses back on. “Anyone else?”  
“With me. In Sokovia.”  
Gonzalez paused a beat. It did not last long. “There was no one else.”   
Red. Why did he keep seeing red?  
Gonzalez crossed over to the door with surprising speed. “Stay down,” he instructed. “I’ll send a doctor in to check on you.”  
No sooner had the door closed and Gonzalez’s figure strode, limping, out of sight, than Pietro had ripped back the blanket and got to his feet.   
He remembered pain. Volunteering for experiments that frightened him even in memory – and he remembered being alone.   
There was no one else.


End file.
